


Arrest the Sun

by Elenothar



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, graves is the sam vimes of the wizarding world, mooncalf in a starring role
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 18:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8856784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: Graves is not impressed by the chaos left in Grindelwald’s wake. Or the fact that he’s been ordered to take one Newt Scamander on as a permanent consultant.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, for some reason my brain decided that Percival Graves is the Sam Vimes of the HP universe and will. not. budge from that headcanon. (Which makes Picquery Vetinari and Newt Sybil, and somehow it all works??) All blame for me actually writing this thing goes to my friend R, who's a terrible enabler, even though the last thing I need is yet another fandom.
> 
> Note: no knowledge of Discworld actually required to read this fic at all, though I heartily recommend reading the series because it is BRILLIANT.

**Graves**

 

For the entire first week Graves is back at his job no one looks him in the eye. He isn’t overly bothered by this, but does admit to some curiosity as to whether this state of affairs is due to a murdering maniac having worn his face for a few months or because none of them had noticed that Graves was being impersonated in the first place.

He should possibly be more concerned about the entire thing, but when he’d been freed from captivity and carted off to St. Jude’s he’d been faced with a choice: go back to work and keep ensuring the safety of his city, or wallow in self-pity for the foreseeable future. Graves may lack many things, but willpower has never been among them. He returned to his post as Director of Magical Security and head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within the week, ignoring lingering bruises, the deep ache of healing bones, and the occasional flare of uneasiness in darkened rooms. Might as well be working while he deals with the repercussions of his treatment at Grindelwald’s hands.

When he first steps foot into his office he half expects to be met with an uncontrolled mess, but in fact it looks almost exactly the same as he’d left it the last time. Beyond, that is, the pile-up of reports and missives in his in-tray at which he reflexively wrinkles his nose. Graves casts another suspicious glance around the room, then sits down in his comfortable high-backed chair behind the desk and turns his attention to the in-tray with a noiseless sigh. Paperwork is a necessary part of his job, but that doesn’t mean he’s looking forward to dealing with the back-log that being impersonated by an evil wizard creates. It’s not only the papers he has on his desk at the moment – he’ll have to go through every operation Grindelwald led, every decision he made, every request he granted. Whilst the man clearly had to affect some care for this job in order to successfully pass as Graves, his list of priorities presumably looked quite a bit different. For one thing it seemed to start with ‘incite a war’. Graves supposes he could get some of his underlings to help with the reviews, but they were _here_ , they didn’t do anything, didn’t notice anything, and if Graves lets himself dwell on that for too long then rage starts bubbling low in his heart even though he knows that isn’t quite fair. Either way it feels like his mess to clean up. He’s always cleaning up messes – big ones in his city and across the country, and the small everyday messes his aurors make. He’s good at it too, or he would’ve lost the last of his marbles a long time ago.

He’s staring somewhat blankly at the topmost parchment – something about a fire-related incident in Queens – when Picquery sweeps into his office.

“Ah, Director Graves. Welcome back to the job.”

He doesn’t even try to stop his eyes from narrowing suspiciously. She usually just orders people to come to her office, instead of barging into theirs, nor is she likely to waste her time on welcoming him back, and Seraphina Picquery never does _anything_ without a reason. Which means that she wants something from him.

“Madame President,” he says blandly. “What a surprise.”

The look she gives him makes it quite clear that she knows what he’s doing, not that that’s going to stop him. Most of the time he gets along well with Picquery; she’s tough as nails and ruthlessly efficient – both traits he appreciates, especially in his superiors. More importantly, though, she is the first President in a while to really _care_ about keeping the law. At least he assumes she does – she is the one who promoted him to Director after all.

“I expect you’ll get more visitors from now on than you’re used to,” she tells him, an ironic twist to her lips even as her eyes remain shrewd. “Guilty consciences can do wonders for departmental cooperation.”

He raises a brow, just managing not to grit his teeth. “I do believe we managed just fine before this incident.”

By which he means that he could stare down anyone until they cooperated with him. It has been pointed out to him that most of his employees see him with a mixture of respect and apprehension, and don’t, as a general rule, like him. He’d only shrugged his shoulders at that – the job needs to be done, liking doesn’t really come into it. Graves certainly doesn’t like most of them, though some have grown on him over time and he likes to think he is always fair in rewarding good work.

For mysterious reasons, that seems to be just the opening Picquery has been waiting for. “There are always improvements that can be made,” she says smoothly, purple robe rustling gently as she steps closer to the desk. Graves’ heart sinks. “I want you to take on Mr. Scamander as a consultant.”

“ _What_?”

“His expertise proved invaluable in the recent… situation.” Her face remains impassive but he can just _tell_ she’s laughing at him. “Having someone with his kind of knowledge to help with future cases should prove beneficial.”

Graves pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s a _civilian_ , Picquery.”

“A hardy one, I should say,” she says, unperturbed as she turns to leave. “Train him as you like. Besides, how better to keep an eye on him?”

That is a surprisingly good point, but still. A civilian. In his department full of highly-trained aurors.

“Does he even want the job?” Graves asks, and he’s probably grasping at straws at this point but dammit he’d really like people to stop interfering in the running of his department.

Picquery halts inside the door. “He already said yes.”

With that she sweeps out of the room, leaving behind only an impending headache. Graves sighs, draws a hand through his hair.

A magizoologist. Mercy Lewis, what’s next, a herbologist?

-

Newt Scamander looks about as harmless as they come, fidgeting in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair in front of Graves’ desk (that he only conceded to have in his room after one too many complaints about people having been made to stand in his room for hours on end while debriefing). His clothes look as rumpled as his hair and he hasn’t made eye-contact with Graves since he entered the office.

A different man might be fooled by the façade, but Graves has met Scamander’s type before. The type which looks all innocent and harmless until you accidentally run into some sticking point and then they transform into a stone wall and absolutely refuse to budge. Possibly violently. Given what he has read about Scamander, it wasn’t hard to figure out what _his_ sticking point is: a menagerie of (probably) deadly and (very probably) illegal magical creatures.

He leans back in his chair. “Tell me, Mr. Scamander, why did you want to join my department as a consultant?”

Scamander still isn’t looking at him, scratches at his neck. “Well, um, I didn’t really, but then Madame President proposed it and Tina, um, Auror Goldstein, thought it was a good idea and” – he shrugs, all hapless confusion – “here I am.”

“So you _don’t_ want to be MACUSA’s brand-new magical creature consultant?” Graves prods, frowning slightly. A civilian is bad enough; a civilian who has been shanghaied into the position by Picquery is worse.

But Newt’s already speaking. “No, no, no, I do, if it means I can save more creatures from being – ”

He stops suddenly, cheeks going red.

“From being murdered by rampaging aurors?” Graves completes the sentence dryly.

Scamander straightens a little in his seat, voice firmer than Graves has heard it so far. “Yes.”

“You don’t agree with our laws about magical beasts.”

It’s not phrased as a question, but Scamander replies anyway, voice softer again. “Of course not. The creatures, they don’t intend to wreak havoc, if they do and a lot are very peaceful all the time. They’re all _instinct_ , Mr. Graves. Killing them for that is cruel and needless.”

Graves sighs to himself. It’s not that he entirely disagrees – no matter his alarming tendency to collect dangerous beasts, Scamander clearly does know what he’s talking about. But what Graves wants is a peaceful city, and anyone or anything that interferes with that is not high up on his list of things that need saving.

Watching Scamander shift in his blue coat, it suddenly occurs to him that Scamander might not be quite such a wreck of nervous ticks all the time, that perhaps it is him who’s making the other man so uncomfortable.

“Would it make you more comfortable if someone else were to conduct this interview?” Graves abruptly asks after the third time Scamander makes his tousled hair even more of a mess by rushing nervous fingers through it.

He expects flustered denial, or maybe somewhat ashamed acquiescence, but not for Scamander to finally lift his gaze and say, “You, ah, _feel_ different, you know.”

Graves stares at him. “What?”

“Grindelwald, he, well, he looked like you, of course” – Scamander has gone back to wringing his hands but Graves feels his estimation of him grudgingly rising (is probably staring in as close to outright fascination as he ever gets) as Scamander pushes on regardless – “but the eyes were all different, and he made a whole room feel cold just, well, _being_ there.”

Distantly Graves wonders how Scamander could’ve made any kind of observations on his eyes when he hasn’t met Graves’ gaze until just a moment ago. Rather more pressingly a question crowds his tongue that he probably shouldn’t ask, but it slips out regardless.

“How would _you_ know?”

_How would you know when none of the people who’ve known me longer than a cursed day didn’t?_

He didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation, and Scamander doesn’t take it as such.

“I, well, I have trained myself to pick up on nonverbal clues.” He pauses, darting a quick glance at Graves. “It’s important to be sensitive to such things when working with magical animals.”

Did Scamander just liken him to his creatures? Graves raises a brow, watches Scamander shrink back into his chair, and then suddenly a smile is tugging at his lips, the motion almost unfamiliar on his face.

“Relax, Mr. Scamander. Whatever the reason, it’s a useful skill.”

Scamander, too, smiles and just for a moment he doesn’t look shy at all, just disconcertingly… _bright_. “Call me Newt please.”

Graves nods, his mind made up. “It seems that you have just been hired by MACUSA, Newt. I’ll get Goldstein to confirm the details with you. Though I wouldn’t expect much of a salary, given what they pay _me_ and I’m supposed to be the Director of Magical Security.”

Newt laughs at that, almost a giggle and his eyes crinkle with mirth. Graves tries very hard not to be charmed and fails. Being charming appears to come to Scamander, to _Newt_ , as easily as being awkward and shy. Graves tries not find that dichotomy fascinating and fails at that too.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves. I am thankful you’re giving me a chance with this.”

Newt is almost to the door when the battle lines fail to stop an impulse Graves hasn’t given in to in _years_.

“Call me Percival,” he says, tries to act like this is something he offers every day. Or at least as if he isn’t making a colossal mistake that’s going to bite him in the ass sooner or later. “Unless you’re addressing me in an official capacity, of course.”

Newt turns back to him and Graves almost jerks back at the gentleness he can see reflected in his green eyes.

“Thank you, Percival,” he murmurs gravely, almost as if he understands what Graves has just given him, and then he’s out the door with another duck of his head.

For a moment Graves allows himself to slump in his seat. What is he doing, being charmed by a man who, if the report on the Grindelwald incident is any indication, attracts trouble like a Veela attracts suitors? Graves has managed to not get attached to anyone for years and he really shouldn’t be starting now – even if deep down he knows that it’s probably already too late for that.

His eyes stray to the mound of paperwork awaiting his attention. He sighs. The work will be a distraction at least.

-

It’s much harder not to be drawn in by Newt’s strange magnetism when the man in question is standing right next to him, bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. He’s probably the only person in the world who can possibly be excited to meet whatever creature has managed to frighten scores of no-majs in Central Park.

Technically he isn’t even supposed to go out on field work as the Director, but habits from his auror days are hard to shake and while all his aurors are competent – he makes certain of _that_ – he can never quite shake the feeling that the best man to have on the job is himself. Sitting around waiting for others to report back to him makes him antsy. Possibly because his aurors are competent, but also do things like whisper ‘silent as the _grave’_ whenever Graves stalks past in a particularly bad mood, which makes him question whether they are, in fact, adults. And it’s hard to control all the variables from behind a desk. In retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have taken the promotion (not that Picquery had worded it as a request), though at least he now has to take orders from fewer nitwits, being higher up in the chain himself.

A stamping sound from the nearby trees interrupts his increasingly sour musings. He glances at Newt, then gives the two other aurors the sign to stay back and not interfere unless they deem the situation to be heading towards potentially lethal. Graves tenses as a screech follows the stamps, but Newt relaxes.

“Oh, it’s a hippogriff.” The man is actually _smiling_. “They’re easy enough to get along with as long as you know the rules.”

Graves is starting to wonder if there’re, in fact, _any_ creatures Newt would classify as ‘hard to get along with’. He’d probably call a damned lethifold ‘harmless’.

Newt makes to step forward and Graves catches his arm to hold him in place. “Are you certain about this? We’ve only just inducted a magizoologist consultant. It’d be a shame to have to find another one so quickly.”

An affronted-sounding peep issues from Newt’s breast pocket, but Newt only smiles and pats the general area gently. “Quite sure. My mother, well, she used to breed hippogriffs.”

“All right,” Graves grudgingly agrees and only just bites down on an entreaty to _for the love of the founding fathers be careful_. He hardly expects the words would make a difference. Instead he watches in fascination as Newt walks forward, entirely straight-backed for once, to meet the shape emerging from the trees.

The hippogriff cuts an imposing figure, with its glossy feathers and powerful wings, yet Newt continues on, undeterred. He bows, eyes never leaving the hippogriff’s and after a long moment in which Graves has to exert major amounts of self-control not to intervene in some form, the hippogriff inclines its own proud head.

Newt steps forward to pet the beak and the beast’s hindquarters still, finally relaxing. At Newt’s sign Graves steps forward carefully, quietly glad that the hippogriff doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to him, leaning into Newt’s carding fingers.

“There’s a herd in Upstate New York,” Newt says as soon as Graves is close enough to hear him. “I can bring her there, see whether she integrates.”

He doesn’t ask how Newt knows that it’s a female hippogriff. The answer would most likely be long and complicated and entirely useless for anyone who hasn’t spent their whole life studying magical creatures.

“That simple?”

Newt looks up, holds his gaze for a moment, utterly serious. “Yes.”

Percival’s assenting shrug appears to be all he needs, and ten minutes later the hippogriff has disappeared into Newt’s suitcase. The beast had even gone _willingly_. If Graves wasn’t amazed before, he is now. Newt is certainly proving his worth as an asset.

Though he is never, ever going to tell Picquery that.

 

**Newt**

 

 

They aren’t even out on official MACUSA business this time. Newt is heading home to the small dingy apartment he found near Jacob’s bakery – not that it’s size matters, he spends most of his time in the suitcase anyway – after a long day of trying to explain to young aurors that _no, killing a creature that’s accidentally wreaked havoc shouldn’t be the first resort_ (or even the last, in Newt’s opinion, but he’ll leave that for later). He wants to get a bit of fresh air after being cooped up inside for most of the day. And then there’s the tall man keeping step beside him. Percival is accompanying him because… well, he doesn’t actually quite know why.

“Why are you coming with me again?” he asks, just as they step out into the cold air.

Something almost like embarrassment flits over Percival’s face, but his voice is stoic when he replies, “Our top priority case at the moment concerns a murdering spree. Whoever is behind it exclusively chooses wizard targets. It’s not a good idea to go walking around alone.”

Newt rather doubts that the murderer would want anything from _him_ , but doesn’t voice the thought. Over the last few weeks he’s found Percival’s company to be surprisingly nice, especially when the man isn’t immersed in the mantle of Director of Magical Security. Humans have always been complicated to him, and most of the time making the effort to socialise just doesn’t seem worth it, but Percival sets him at ease. Perhaps it’s because he hasn’t asked a single thing of Newt, personally. As Director, yes, but even then he _asks_ , even when the question is worded as a demand. There’s a difference, Newt can tell. Few people have ever bothered to ask anything where he is concerned.

And then there’s the fact that Percival has every reason to be a bit twitchy these days.

So he only hums vague agreement and proceeds walking in comfortable silence.  Newt knows he isn’t going to stay in New York forever – perhaps even not that much longer. Already he feels unrest itch beneath his skin. He only stayed for this long because any chance at changing MACUSA’s policies for dealing with magical creatures, even just a little bit, is worth a bit of discomfort. For the first time he wonders whether this time he’ll leave people behind that he’ll miss.

This new thought occupies him enough that he doesn’t notice anything is amiss until he hears Percival’s startled exclamation, followed by a sudden bloom of light in the corner of his eye. He fumbles for his wand, almost drops it when Percival pushes him back towards the wall, feels a hex passing by far too close for comfort. Wand finally securely in hand, he squints past the brightness of the shielding charm Percival must’ve cast, only to see their assailant being forced to his knees by the quick, elegant movements of Percival’s wand, ropes snapping around the man’s body.

The shield charm fades, and suddenly Percival looks much less steady.

“ _Invisibility_ cloak,” Percival grits, one hand clenched around his side. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

He wobbles dangerously, and Newt, unthinking, steps forward and grabs his arms before he can fall.

There’s quite a bit of blood rushing past slackening fingers and, barely sparing a glance for the bound wizard a few feet away, Newt does the first thing he can think of – he apparates them both right into his suitcase. Graves is a heavy, unconscious weight in his arms as he stumbles down the last step into his workshop and heads for the pallet he keeps at the back.

“Dittany, dittany,” he mumbles to himself, as he drops Percival down onto the mattress. Newt has treated enough injuries over the years that he knows what to do at least, even if the rest of the situation makes him feel woefully out of his depth.

A moment later he has found the vial filled with brown liquid and stumbles back to Percival’s side. The man’s shirt is blood-soaked and Newt doesn’t feel too bad for simply ripping it to get to the wound. Smoke hisses up at him as small droplets connect with flesh and the bleeding slows, then stops entirely as the wound closes itself.

Newt draws back, satisfied. With the bleeding stopped, most of the danger has passed. All Percival needs now is rest and fluids. He draws a blanket over the auror, then makes to go and feed his creatures before remembering the criminal they’d left tied up in the middle of the city.

Groaning quietly to himself he apparates back to MACUSA. Tina is at her desk still, thank Merlin for small favours, and looks up from her paperwork at his hurried approach.

“I’ve got Percival, but he was wounded so he should just stay in the case for a bit, but he’ll be fine, and we left the attacker bound in a side alley,” he explains all in a rush. Possibly in the wrong order.

“What? Slow down, Newt,” Tina starts, but he’s already gripping her arm and apparating them into the alley.

Newt breathes a quiet sigh of relief at finding their assailant still there, glaring mutinously but unable to move.

“There,” he says. “I’m just going to go now.”

Tina nods distractedly, then frowns and turns back to him.

“Wait, _Percival_? Newt – ”

But Newt’s already apparating back to the suitcase. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to leave the injured man alone for too long, but, really, he just isn’t in the mood for this conversation right now and Tina is nothing if not stubborn when she has honed in on a topic to pursue.

-

Percival is still out cold when he returns, but he looks peaceful so Newt doesn’t disturb him and settles at his desk.

A mooncalf wanders in, little nose twitching. Newt studies her for a moment, perplexed. The mooncalves don’t usually stray from their habitat, shy creatures that they are. But this one seems intent on plopping down half on the bedding around Percival, big eyes shining in the light. He shrugs to himself and turns back to his scribbling. The chapter on erumpents still needs work.

It’s only when Pickett starts chattering at him and tugging on his lapel that he looks up to find Percival’s eyes open. He looks rather dazed and is staring at the mooncalf with as much of a surprised expression as Newt has ever seen on his face.

Grabbing a pitcher of water, Newt hurries over to him.

“Mooncalves are harmless,” he assures, causing Percival’s eyes to flitter to him. “Aquila won’t hurt you.”

Percival’s mouth twitches, almost into a smile. “Did you name them all after stars?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Appropriate, I suppose,” Percival muses. A moment later his hand moves and he starts scritching the top of Aquila’s head. The mooncalf responds by purring in contentment.

“You should drink something,” Newt says, pushing the pitcher forward to cover the warmth that is blooming in his heart. “You lost quite a bit of blood.”

Percival takes the pitcher with his free hand, eyes sharpening. “Did someone take care of the suspect?”

Newt ducks his head in his usual aborted nod. “I got Tina there.”

“Good, that’s good.” Percival visibly relaxes, grimaces only a little as the motion pulls at his healing side. “She knows what she’s doing. Most of the time.” He squints up at Newt. “When you’re not around. You have a habit of making good aurors irresponsible, Newt Scamander.”

Newt fidgets with the fraying cuff of his coat. “Um. Sorry?” he offers.

The slow smile taking over Percival’s face chases away darkness and leaves only light, and Newt can’t help but stare.

“I really shouldn’t mean that as a compliment, but I do.”

Huh?

Newt only just stops himself from scratching at his hairline in confusion. Did Percival just… endorse him?

Percival watches him for a moment, then sighs, sounding almost fond. “Never mind that now. Tell me what I’ve got to look forward to. Can I go back to work tomorrow?”

“You really shouldn’t,” Newt tells him with a frown. “You need rest to recover completely.”

Percival raises a brow. “But there’s nothing technically wrong with me anymore?”

“Nothing that a blood-replenishing potion won’t fix. I don’t have one here, but I can get Tina to bring one.”

Neither of them mentions the possibility of Percival leaving the case in the meantime.  The mooncalf starts purring louder.

-

Tina drops by an hour later with a vial of blood-replenishing potion and an expression on her face that mixes curious and determined in the worst way.

She lets him give the potion to Percival while she greets her boss, but then wastes no time in bodily dragging Newt into one of the adjoining exhibits and out of Percival’s earshot.

“Tell me what is going on _now_ ,” she demands, ignoring the chittering of the occami behind her. “What the hell happened?”

Newt takes a moment to stroke along the newly hatched chic’s head feathers. It’s easier if he doesn’t see Tina’s expression. “I was walking home and Perc- uh, Mr. Graves was accompanying me. He was worried about the murder case.” He swallows. “We were ambushed. The attacker had an invisibility cloak, I think? That’s what Mr. Graves said anyway. He saved my life. I didn’t even notice anything was wrong.” His eyes are focusing on the occami nest so hard he can feel them starting to ache. “That hex he took was aimed at me.”

Tina makes a noise at that, small and choked, and when he dares look at her there is too much sympathy shining out of her eyes.

“His choice isn’t your fault.”

Newt glares at a small bit of wood, which probably doesn’t deserve his ire. “Why then? Why would he do that?”

There’s something almost careful in the way she looks at him. “I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

The very idea that a man like Percival could be interested in _him_ is preposterous, of course, but for a short, intense moment Newt surprises himself with just how much he wants it to be true.

Well. That’s a complication he could’ve done without.

Tina opens her mouth, then seems to think better of it and only pats him on the arm. When she moves away, he thinks he can hear her mutter _Percival_ under her breath, sounding equally incredulous and impressed.

Left alone, Newt does what he always does when faced with emotional turmoil – he concentrates on his creatures.

-

Three days later – two after Percival had returned to work with some grumbling about ‘missing work’ and his underlings probably having managed to ‘mess up at least three operations while I was gone’ – Newt definitely isn’t in hiding.

He’s still not hiding when three precise knocks on the top of his suitcase and Percival’s magically enhanced voice ask for entry, and he stays right where he is in the savanna habitat, though he does flick his wand to open the suitcase.

It’s a testament to how used he has become to Percival’s presence that he doesn’t flinch or tense up at all when the other man comes to stand next to him, looking at the rock that had housed a thunderbird when he could be bothered to come out of the sky.

“Goldstein told me about Frank,” Percival says, voice unaccountably warm. “Do you miss him?”

Newt thinks about his answer for a moment, then settles on utter honesty. “I always do.”

Percival inhales sharply, almost as if hurt. “I thought most of your creatures stay with you permanently.”

“No, not at all.” Newt shakes his head, eyes tracing the horizon. “Only the ones who don’t want to go, or aren’t capable of surviving in the wild anymore.” The wideness of the savanna is encouraging, somehow, giving him an illusion of freedom that he blames for what comes out of his treacherous mouth next. “It’s not a requirement. To staying.”

Percival doesn’t say anything, but Newt sees a softness in his eyes that gives him courage.

 _He will never make the first step_ , Tina had told him, sounding worried and fond and a bit irritated all at once.

So Newt does it for him.

It’s a short kiss. A quick peck is all Newt can manage, still half afraid he’s making a terrible mistake, that Percival will push him away any second now.

When he dares glance back up Percival is smiling at him, looking a little bit confused but also pleased. “If that’s how you treat all your lost creatures I’m not surprised they want to stay,” he says, voice a deep rumble, and then Newt is smiling, too, giddy with happiness and relief.

“You’re a bit of a special case,” Newt tells him, and Percival steps closer until their shoulders brush.

They stay like that, warmth spreading from the small point of contact, until an insistent hand starts tugging at Newt’s sleeve and the beseeching eyes of Dougal the demiguise pointedly remind them of the imminence of feeding time.

Newt gives Percival a sheepish look as he’s tugged away, to which the other man only shrugs. Some priorities will never change.

That night’s feeding turns into a bit of a production, with curious creatures crowding around the stranger who hands out floating pellets like he was born to it.


End file.
